If this isn't a kingdom then I don't know what is
by mirai3k
Summary: Death comes to greet him wearing a familiar face. [possible future-fic; Izumo/Mikoto]


**Notes:** So I wanted to write something remotely uplifting for Izumo's birthday. Not only is this very late for the occasion but I apparently have strange ideas about what constitutes as uplifting.

Title is from Richard Siken's "Snow and Dirty Rain" with some inspiration drawn from:

_We've read_  
_the back of the book, we know what's going to happen._  
_The fields burned, the land destroyed, the lovers left_  
_broken in the brown dirt. And then it's gone._  
_Makes you sad. All your friends are gone. Goodbye_  
_Goodbye. No more tears._  
_I would like to meet you all_  
_in Heaven_

* * *

They say your whole life flashes before you in your last moments.

Considering the universe's twisted sense of humour, it almost makes sense. This here was his whole life hovering before him, crouching by his side, to be more specific, and frowning down at Izumo like he'd just lost some petty fight.

(The fact of the matter was that he had, and it's likely the reason Izumo is where he is now, but all of that feels entirely unimportant right now.

It's no secret that their war was over some time ago, or that he has been so very tired ever since. He'd had only enough fight left in him to hold the fort together long enough for the kids to grow up. Some grew apart, some made him proud, and others did all of that and became casualties themselves. After all of that, he doesn't think he can be faulted for not finding much left worth fighting for.)

"Yo," his friend says, like nothing's happened, like he's not some hemorrhage-induced hallucination.

"Long time," and Izumo can't keep the grin out of his voice, never mind that he's lying on a street corner, bleeding, well, _to death_.

"Not long enough," Mikoto scowls. "You weren't supposed to go just yet."

Izumo wants to say a number of things. Among them are:_ You don't mean that_, and, _You have no goddamned right, _but mostly, _I've missed you, you fucker. I've missed you so fucking much_.

He laughs instead, a weary sound. "Cut me some slack, yeah? Powers ain't what they used to be."

The lines on Mikoto's face seem to only deepen at this. Still, he looks younger than Izumo remembers him at the end, never mind that he died young, never mind that they all did. And he's not sure if it is Mikoto's doing but it's warm here, warmer than the dark back-alley he remembers from minutes ago, warmer than death has any right to be. It's well into the night in Shizume, and yet, everything here feels lit as if by late afternoon light, in dull golds and the orange and violet hues of dusk. He reaches out to touch Mikoto's face, half-expecting to wake up, dreading that he will disappear as he has done in countless dreams before.

Mikoto touches the helix of his ear in turn. Izumo sees him noticeably wince as his fingers catch the small ring of metal, the shape of a legacy passed down among the three of them like survivor's guilt.

"Didn't think you'd mind," Izumo says. "Didn't think he'd mind either."

Mikoto looks away briefly, says, "There's no point anymore." He brushes Izumo's hair back from his forehead and gives him a look that Izumo knows too well; it means: _I'm sorry, so fucking sorry, and I_ _would've done anything to spare you this. _

"Hey," he says, a little breathless, because he's getting lightheaded now. "It's fine. I'm ready. It'll all work out, remember?" And tries to replicate that reassuring smile that was perfected by someone else he remembers fondly. And then, because it occurs to him suddenly, Izumo asks, "Did he come to get you? Back when-"

Mikoto scoffs, "You're losing blood and it's makin' you delirious. Let's get this over with."

"I'm glad," Izumo smiles. "Tell him I said hello."

"You can tell him yourself soon enough," Mikoto mumbles, leans into his space and kisses him.

It feels uncannily like that day when Izumo had first reached out and took a hold of a boy's right hand, felt the flames as they had danced through his own fingers, a stunning, brilliant red with a remarkably gentle warmth.

It's that same warmth that finds him now, surrounds him and fills the empty spaces left by all the years he had spent drifting in between.

And it carries him finally, finally, finally home.


End file.
